The Phantom of Rue Royale Read Free

Straightening up, Nicolas opened the door and jumped out. A traffic jam, he thought. What had happened, in fact, was that a berlin emerging from Rue de Bellechasse had tried to join the long line of vehicles in Rue de Bourbon. With some difficulty,Nicolas made his way through the gathered onlookers. If only he had listened to the wise counsel offered by Semacgus, who had suggested crossing Pont de Sèvres and reaching Place Louis XV via the right bank of the Seine. He had insisted on taking a more direct route via the left bank and Pont Royal. He finally broke through a circle of onlookers who were looking down at a distressing sight on the ground.
    An old man, who must have been knocked down by the berlin, was lying in his own blood, his face white and his eyes rolled upwards. His wig and hat had slipped off to reveal a smooth skull the colour of ivory. An old woman in bourgeois clothes was kneeling by the body, her cape in disarray, weeping silently and trying to lift the wounded man’s head. Unable to do so, she began gently stroking his cheek. The crowd stood motionless, contemplating the scene. Before long, voices rose in anger, followed immediately by threats and insults to the coachman who had tried to enter Rue de Bourbon. From inside the carriage, an arrogant voice gave the order to push the rabble aside and carry on regardless. The coachman was already urging the horses forward when Nicolas seized one of them by the bit to stop its progress and said something in its ear, a method he often used with his own mounts. With his finger, he massaged the animal’s gum, and the horse quivered and moved back. Turning his head, he saw Semacgus leaning over the wounded man, feeling his neck and holding a small pocket mirror in front of his lips. The surgeon helped the old lady to her feet and looked around for help. Two men appeared, carrying a table on which they carefully laid the victim. A man dressed all in black brought up the rear. Semacgus said something in his ear, and he took charge of the old woman.
    Nicolas felt a blow on his shoulder. The horse shied in fright and almost fell backwards. He turned to discover a glittering mass of bright gold stripes, and recognised the blue and red uniform of an officer of the City Guards. A broad, crimson face with cold little eyes, the very image of rage. It was the passenger from the carriage, who had got out and angrily struck Nicolas with the flat of his sword.
    ‘At the King’s service, Monsieur,’ Nicolas said. ‘You have just struck a magistrate, a commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’
    The crowd had moved closer and was following the scene with noticeable annoyance.
    ‘At the city’s service,’ the officer replied. ‘Move aside. My name is Major Langlumé, of the City Guards. I am on my way to the Place Louis XV to make sure that the festivities organised by the provost are proceeding in an orderly fashion. In accordance with the King’s decision, Monsieur Sartine’s people are not involved.’
    The regulations were categorical: it was out of the question for Nicolas to cross swords with this brute, even though he was itching to do so. He suddenly saw the onlookers closest to them, including some with especially sinister faces, gathering stones. What followed happened so quickly that nothing and nobody could have prevented it. A hail of stones, even a piece of rubble from a house under construction, fell on the carriage and horses. The major was hit on the temple, resulting in a gash. Shouting and swearing, he quickly got back into the carriage and resigned himself to having it move back into Rue de Bellechasse. Through the broken window, he waved a vengeful fist at Nicolas.
    ‘I admire your capacity for making friends,’ said Semacgus,who had approached. ‘Our victim will be fine with a plaster. He’d only fainted from a cut to the head, but he lost a lot of blood, which is always dramatic! I handed him and his wife over to an apothecary, who will do